


In the Fire Season

by adreadfulidea



Series: like our ghosts will live [2]
Category: Mad Men
Genre: And then less dysfunctional, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Mental Health Issues, Post-Finale, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She found him at the window, watching the hills burn. </p>
<p>“Should you still be here?” he asked. He had his back turned to her, so she looked at his reflection. His eyes were wide and shining and dark. Outside the fire blazed a brilliant orange along the distant horizon. But the hot, dry wind was carrying it away from them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Fire Season

**Author's Note:**

> Some homophobic and ableist language used as Ginsberg isn't very sympathetic towards himself. Many of the relationships described herein are pretty sketchy. Pathetic fallacy is abused throughout. Consider this the author's attempt at California gothic. This is the sequel to _It never rains in southern california_ so please read that story first.

 

 

 

 

 

She found him at the window, watching the hills burn.

“Should you still be here?” he asked. He had his back turned to her, so she looked at his reflection. His eyes were wide and shining and dark. Outside the fire blazed a brilliant orange along the distant horizon. But the hot, dry wind was carrying it away from them.

“It’s not as close as you think,” she said. “We’ve got some time yet.”

 

Michael never did switch off the night shift. He could have; he wasn’t trying to throw her off his trail anymore, to duck into the space between sunset and sunrise and disappear. “I might as well stay on,” he said. “It’s not as if I’d be sleeping otherwise. This’ll suit me better. Less fighting with myself.”

The truth was that Megan didn’t know how he slept, or when. She had never seen him do it. He came to her after work, or she went to him. They didn’t talk about it. There was no formal arrangement. Just coming together, in her bed or his. She had napped in his room a few times but he was still awake when she woke up, reading or watching the early edition while sunlight pushed through the slats in the blinds. He didn’t fuck and run - at her place he would stay with her until she had fallen asleep, tracing the knobs of her spine in the silence they couldn’t seem to break. But he would also be gone by the time morning came. She wondered if he ever kissed her goodbye, on the forehead or the cheek, before he left.

The house was becoming strange in its emptiness. She didn’t want the crowds back but she didn’t know what to do with herself in their absence. It had been a long time since she had been without distractions.

If Michael was around - but she couldn’t ask him for more than he was already giving her. They had made no promises to each other. It _worked_ because they didn’t make promises. He never asked her for anything.

(He might say no.)

Her father called her from Montreal a lot. He wanted her to update him on Marie. Was she still in France? Did she and Roger fight, or get along? Did she talk about him? The grandchildren missed her. _He_ missed her, he’d made a mistake -

“More than one, if I’m remembering right,” Megan said. “There was Patricia, Lily, Thérèse -”

She had known most of them. They came by the house when she was a kid, textbooks in hand, looking at her father with soft hopeful faces. They had questions about the material; they vanished into his office. Later the girls would reappear and fix their lipstick and hair in the hall mirror. When Marie got home she was always full of questions and Megan got sick over having to lie, or having to decide which parts to lie about.

Emilé hung up on her, which was how most of their conversations ended. Until the next time, when it started all over again. He blamed her for being cold but she couldn’t be anything else, not now. It was self defense.

Some days she let the phone ring and ring. She turned music up, loud as she could stand, to block it out of her ears. Pretty soon it was like she didn’t hear it at all.

 

“You ever think about having kids?” She asked Michael when they were curled up amongst her rumpled sheets. He’d stopped trying to cover himself immediately after sex and she followed the line of his back and ass with her eyes.

Post-coital was as close to relaxed as he ever got. She had strung up some lights along the fence, though the yard was still bare of any other decoration, and he was lying on his stomach looking out at them. She never closed her bedroom curtains, even when she was naked. The yard was big and the fence high. No one could see in.

“Hm?” he asked, turning towards her.

“I didn’t mean right now,” she clarified. “Or with you.”

She wanted to bite down on her own tongue the second she heard the words out loud. What a stupid, randomly cruel thing to say. Carefully she stole a glance at him. He didn’t seem at all offended - he was smiling slightly; it was dry and wistful.

“I used to,” he said.

“But not anymore?”

The smile faded from his face. “No. Not anymore.”

“I was pregnant, once,” she said.

The lights outside resembled fireflies if she squinted. She concentrated on them to avoid looking at Michael; she had no explanation for why she’d told him in the first place. It felt like everything was bubbling to the surface out of her control. Most days she couldn’t understand herself.

The bed creaked from him shifting position next to her. “What happened?”

“I had a miscarriage,” she said. “It was early on. It just - went away.”

“When you were with Don?”

“I didn’t tell him,” she said. “Do you think I should have?”

He touched the side of her neck with light fingers, like he was taking her pulse. “I think I don’t get to tell you what to do.”

“I didn’t want kids with him and I didn’t want to tell him,” said Megan, “so I didn’t do anything at all. I was relieved that I didn’t need to - to make a decision about it. He wanted a baby, too. Three of his own already that he didn’t see, but he’d trot out these irritating fucking hints. First comes love then comes marriage and then comes Megan with the baby carriage. I was afraid he’d - I don’t know. Make me keep it, somehow. Or hate me if I wouldn’t. The truth is I don’t want to take care of anyone but myself.”

Complaining about her ex-husband after sex. Very attractive. But she didn’t care about being attractive, what that meant, whether she had it, could use it , could give it away to men - the men who had expected it from her like a payment rather than a gift freely given. She’d been a prize to them since she was a teenager and she couldn’t be bothered anymore. A line from a poem crept into her head. Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself.

“My father always wanted grandchildren real bad,” said Michael.

Megan hadn’t dared broach the subject of Morris since that night in the parking lot. She was hesitant to react strongly even now; there was a terrible fragility to whatever lay between herself and Michael. It could be easily spoiled. And she wasn’t done yet.

She settled on simplicity. “Yeah?” she asked, without much inflection.

“Yeah,” he said. “He isn’t going to get them, though.”

“People don’t always get what they want.”

“No,” he said. “No, they don’t.”

 

Megan surprised him at work one night. The waitress went back to fetch him while she stood by the cash register and fidgeted at the hem of her skirt, a thin wraparound knit that she wore with chunky sandals. No pantyhose - they made her feel like she was dissolving in the heat.

Michael came out wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hey,” he said. There was a touch of worry in his voice. “Did something happen?”

“Um,” said Megan. “No?” Unexpectedly abashed, she could feel herself flushing. They didn’t - they weren’t dating, were they? They had never gone to a movie or taken in a show. It hadn’t occurred to her that a visit might be unwelcome, but it maybe it should have. “I guess I was a little bit -” _lonely_ “- bored. I wanted to see you.”

Too much, too far, and she winced internally. His expression didn’t change at all.

“Hector,” he said a minute later, over his shoulder at a guy sitting in one of the booths. “I’m gonna take my break now, okay?”

Hector craned his neck to get a good look at Megan. He was the cook she’d spoken to the last time she was here. There was a plate of fries in front of him. He gave an approving nod and grinned in Megan’s direction. “Sure thing, man. Take as long as you need.”

Michael paused, his shoulders stiffening up in a way that could have been annoyance but also could have been jealousy. At the idea that it might be something dark and warm unfurled in the pit of Megan’s stomach. Which was fucked up, but knowing so didn’t make it stop happening.

He fished his keys out of his pocket and handed them to her. “These are for the truck. You mind? Or you want to sit in here?”

“The truck,” Megan said, and smiled brightly. “It’s quieter.”

“Good,” he said. “I mean - if you’d like.” He moved towards the kitchen, plucking at the strings of his apron, but stopped with a snap of his fingers. “Wait. I forgot to ask - there anything you want to eat? I’ll put in an order.”

“A milkshake,” she said. “Vanilla.”

His truck was parked out back. There was a green Dodge next to it, old enough to be classic and very well cared for. There was a specialized license plate on the front that said ‘Ramos’ in blocky letters.

She climbed into the truck on the passenger seat side. It took some elbow grease to get the windows rolled down. Megan wondered where he’d gotten this thing; a sticker on the dash announced _Welcome to the Bluegrass State_ but it was too faded to be new, dust accumulating around the sticky edges. She popped the glove compartment and looked in; there was a cracked pair of sunglasses, some gum and a lighter that didn’t have any fluid in it. A stack of paper napkins, too, with the name of a hotel printed on them. His registration was folded up under the sunglasses. Under his real name, not Mike Greenbaum.

Michael opened the door and she froze, caught. He didn’t get angry, though; he laughed instead, under his breath.

“Really, Megan?” he said. “And I thought Hector was nosy.”

“Sorry,” she said, shamefaced. He shook his head and gave her the milkshake she had asked for. It was in one of those steel cups and was gloriously frosty against her palms. She sipped some up through the straw; thick as cream cheese and exactly as icy as she hoped.

“This is delicious,” she said. “My compliments to the chef.”

“That’s his car right there,” said Michael. “He inherited it from his favorite Aunt. Says driving it reminds him of her.” He turned the radio on and clicked the dial around, through a spanish language station, past country-western and landing on talk radio. It was a report about the fires. They’d been bad in Sonoma already and the season was only beginning.

“What’s it called,” he said, “that wind that’s always going. The one that makes them worse.”

“Santa Anas,” said Megan. “It happens every year. You’ll get used to it.”

“It never stops,” he said. “I wake up thinking I hear someone but it’s only wind under the door. Sounds like a whisper.”

“You need weatherproofing,” she said.

“And the dust,” he said. “It blows in, too. All over everything I got.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “Put on some music and we’ll drown out the wind.”

He found a station playing top forty which fit the bill. It was kind of like going parking, when she was a kid. Going for a milkshake and sitting in car with a boy she liked while excitement bloomed under her skin. In those days they’d tried for more of a view than cracked pink stucco but you couldn’t have everything.

Michael hummed along with the radio and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel while Megan finished her milkshake. “You can sing, right?” he asked.

She put the cup down by the side of her seat, crammed in against the door so that it wouldn’t tip and spill the dregs all over the floor. “Who told you?”

“Stan,” he said. “He saw you, one time. At some party for Don?”

She laughed in reflexive embarrassment. “Oh god. He _would_. File that under one of a million regrets.”

“Why?” he asked. “Stan seemed to think you were pretty good.”

“Stan wasn’t thinking about my singing, trust me,” she said. She could recall the humiliation as if it was still fresh, the sting and disgust of hearing Harry crow about what he’d like to do to her. And Stan sure as hell hadn’t made any move to stop him. Not on behalf of an advertising miracle’s silly trophy wife.

Michael gave her a curious look. “It was a mistake,” she said. “Don didn’t like it.”

“I’d have liked it,” Michael said.

“Maybe.”

“What’s not to like?”

Megan smiled. “Well. You weren’t much like the other guys in the office. I’m sure you would have had your own opinion on it. You always did.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I think?”

“I mean it,” she said. “I used to wonder about you.”

“Wonder about me?” he asked. “Well, a lot of people have done that.”

“Not like that,” she said. “Not - something unflattering, or whatever. You seemed to just spring up out of nowhere. Like you came from a different world than the rest of us.”

He was quiet for a minute. “I guess I did. That place was lousy with ivy leaguers. I never even went to college.”

“How’d you get into advertising?”

“By accident,” he said. “Same way I do most things.”

He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so she kept going. “What do you think would have happened if we’d gotten to know each other better back then?”

He shook his head. “You got me. We didn’t have much in common.”

They didn’t now, either, yet here they were. “I think I’d have seduced you,” she said.

“ _Megan_.”

“Why not?” she said, grinning. “We could have had ourselves a great little affair. Messing around in the creative lounge after everyone was gone. In Don’s office. Or in his bed -”

“Oh my god,” he said. She cupped the back of his neck with her palm and rubbed her thumb over his hairline. He closed his eyes and smiled. She liked how responsive he was, she thought. The way he could never stay still under her hands.

“Do you like that?” she asked, sweetly. “I could have whispered in your ear in the breakroom. All the the things I’d want to do with you. You were so innocent, it would have been fun to mess you up.”

“You wouldn’t actually,” he said. “Do any of those those things. Not when you were married to Don.”

“No,” she said. “But it’s nice to imagine.” Nice to imagine Don finding out about it, too, but she wasn’t going to tell him that part.

“Yeah,” he said, and kissed her.

She was worked up and he knew it. How could he not with the way she got her legs around his waist as quick as she could, her skirt bunching up on her hips.

He felt for her underneath it, fingers pressing against the damp spot on her underwear. “Oh,” he exhaled. “You’re wet.”

Even that light touch made her shiver. “So do something about it.”

There wasn’t much room in the cab; they kept knocking knees and smacking up against the dashboard. “Hold on,” he said, twisting away from her to open the door on the driver’s side. Then he hopped outside, just out of her reach.

“What -” she said, but when he put his hands on her hips and tugged she got the message. She slid down to meet him, sitting on the edge of the seat with her knees on either side of his. He unbuttoned the side of her skirt and peeled it off her.

It ended up on the truck floor. Her underwear, too; he stripped her completely below the waist and she melted back into the seat, biting at her lower lip. Somehow she felt more exposed than she would if she were totally naked. She made a small, eager sound when he pushed her legs open wide.

“Michael,” she said, “Michael, they might come out -”

“You want - should I stop -”

“No, _no_.” She scrabbled at his shoulders, trying to draw him closer.

Typically he liked to take his time when he went down on her, especially if it made her frustrated enough to start throwing orders and demands at him. Sometimes she thought he was trying to goad her deliberately, pushing for some reaction that he wanted but couldn’t ask for outright. But they didn’t _have_ time, so he got down to business.

She sighed with relief when he put his mouth on her. She was halfway to coming already, aching for it. He held her spread open with his hands behind her trembling knees. God, it was so obvious, what they were doing. Anyone could see - anyone could _hear_ -

“Hurry,” she whimpered, “Michael - _ngh_ \- before someone comes looking -”

The way he moaned made her crazy. Crazy that he was so into it; maybe he wanted to get caught tongue-fucking her cunt like they were both going to die if she didn’t get off. To see how messy they were, how desperate they were for each other. He must be so hard, she thought, and rubbed herself against his face with a grunt. Slicking him down to the chin, _using_ him -

“Fuck,” he panted, and pulled away for a second, barely a second before pushing two fingers into her and sucking roughly on her clit.

She came stuffing the side of her hand into her mouth to try and keep from making noise. Some still spilled out, little high pitched sobs of breath that she couldn’t stop.

His cheeks were pink and his hair was messy - they were so busted. She reached back, above her head, and opened the glove compartment. Napkins fell out onto the seat; she picked one up and passed it to him.

“Ha,” he said. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You might still want to wash up in the bathroom before you go back,” she said. “You do work in a kitchen.”

“I was going to,” he said, comfortably, and rested his head in her lap. His arms slipped around her waist. “Give me some credit.”

“Don’t you want me to do something for you?” she asked. He was still breathing hard, and she put her hand between his shoulderblades under his shirt.

“It’s fine. It’ll just take a minute.” He winced and adjusted himself. “Maybe a couple minutes.” Above them there was a long screech of metal; a broken piece of drainpipe was being lifted up by a rush of parched, desert scented air. Michael looked up. It scraped against the wall on the way back down, like fingernails on a chalkboard. “That fucking wind,” he muttered, and closed his eyes slowly.

 

He brought her a milkshake the next time they saw each other. Vanilla, like she had before, in a to-go styrofoam cup with a plastic lid. It melted on the drive over. “I guess I didn’t think that one through,” he said as he dumped runny ice-cream remnants down her sink.

“It’s the thought that counts,” she said.

“People only say that when they’re trying to be polite about shitty presents,” he said.

“I wouldn’t say it’s shitty. Just … not edible.” Megan took the cup from him and rinsed it out before she threw it away. “It’s a very nice gesture.”

“Maybe I should get a cooler.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes, and that was when she noticed how tired he looked. Pale and frayed around the edges. “Not that I think it’d help with this weather.”

“You don’t look so hot,” she said.

“Did I forget my makeup this morning?”

“Very funny,” she said. “You know you don’t have to come all the way out here if you don’t feel up to it.”

“I didn’t sleep,” he said. “I keep thinking about the fires. What houses look like while they’re burning, hearing firetrucks - someone died. Did you know someone died? I heard about it on the radio. That’s how Zelda Fitzgerald went. In a fire.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said.

“It’s true. Can you imagine what that was like for her? She was locked up; she couldn’t get out. All she could do was wait,” he said. “Sit there and wait for the fire to get her.”

Who would lock a woman inside a burning house? Megan wanted to ask but didn’t; he was so distressed already.

“It’s so warm, god. I thought Brooklyn could get bad but it was nothing like here. Opening the window doesn’t even help. So I just lie there and count sheep.”

And he was on his feet all day. They sat down at the kitchen island across from each other. He leaned on it like it was holding him upright. “What about an air-conditioning unit?” She would buy him one, if he wanted.

He shrugged limply. “They’d never let me. Uses too much electricity.”

“You can take a nap,” she said. “No offense, but if we try anything tonight you’re going to fall asleep on top of me.”

“Who says I wanna be on top?” he asked, with a grin. But he could barely keep his eyes open, and he clearly knew it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I should go back home. I’m useless to you right now.”

“Why don’t you stay?” she asked. “Frankly I’m not sure you should be on the road right now.”

She could too easily picture him swerving off the road or straight into another car. Nothing left of his truck but crumpled metal on the highway. It made her chest go tight.

“I - you wouldn’t mind? Really?”

“I’ve fallen asleep with you there a bunch of times.”

“Yeah, after we were _intimate_.”

“Intimate,” she giggled. She grabbed at his shirt, the fabric balling up between her knuckles. “What a phrase. Say that again - I love it.”

He fended her off, trying to stay serious. “No. You know what I mean.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“But it would be different,” he said. “Am I wrong?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she reassured him. “I’m not going to start asking for long walks on the beach. We’re - we help each other out. I don’t get attached like I used to. You don’t need to worry.”

“Oh,” he said, and that was all for a long time. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He was as blank as an unwritten page, and she had no idea where he had learned to do that. It was a new skill. At some point between New York and Los Angeles he had learned how to hide. “Megan,” he said eventually, “we should - we ought to not muddy things up. It’s better if we keep the lines as clear as possible.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said.

“If nobody gets confused,” he continued, “then nobody gets hurt.”

“And everyone gets what they want,” she said. “Hey, I get it. If you don’t feel comfortable with the idea then don’t stay. _I_ don’t care.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said. “That’s not - it’s not about how I feel.”

“I can’t tell if I’m confused or you’re not making sense,” Megan said. Her energy had dropped; she was thick-headed and grumpy as though his exhaustion was infectious. The urge to be away from people was overwhelming. The back of her skull started to pulse with a tension headache, pain radiating down her neck and heading for her temples.

“I should head out,” he said. “The longer I put off the drive the worse it’ll be.”

“Well, be careful,” she said, flippantly, even a bit mean. “I’d hate to read about you in the paper tomorrow.”

He tried to kiss her on the cheek before he went. She ducked her head and prevented him. But she didn’t know why - there was no reason for her to act like that. None at all. He kissed her all the time.

Michael pulled back immediately. “Uh. Are you mad -”

“No,” she said. “Why would I be.”

It was odd that she had such trouble sleeping after he was gone. She stayed up all night watching television and woke at noon the next day, sore and cramped-up from having passed out on the couch.

 

Megan lit a cigarette and tossed the lighter on the nightstand. “Would you ever sleep with someone for money?”

“Would you?”

Not what she asked, but okay. “I’ve wondered if it would feel any different. I bet it doesn’t. What if I told you I went to bed with a director for a role? It would be the same thing, right?”

“I’d say that’s your business.”

Irritation washed over her. It wouldn’t kill him to have an opinion. To actually care what she did. “I haven’t. But sex is sex.”

He went up on his elbows and looked down at her. She was on her back with her hair spread out against the pillow. The smoke curled up into his face. “Why don’t you ask somebody what it’s like, if you’re so curious? It’s not like L.A. has any shortage of call girls.”

“I don’t _know_ any of them,” she said. “Where would I meet people like that?”

He shrugged. “The lady next door to me is one. I think, anyway. Or I should say girl. She’s younger than I am.”

“You talk to her? What about?”

“The weather.”

Megan raised her eyebrows. “Is she pretty?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never noticed.”

“You noticed,” she said. “Men always do.”

“I really didn’t,” he said. “I wasn’t looking to get laid, you know. Not when I got here and not when I ran into you either. She’s a kid. Not even twenty, I’d bet. She should be cramming for her chemistry final and - and trying to figure out if it’s okay to let her boyfriend get to second base. Not screwing slimeballs in some shitty motel.”

“You can fuck her if you want,” Megan said, airily. “I have no investment who you sleep with.”

There was something flat and unhappy in his expression. It should have stopped her; instead it drove her on.

“I’m just being practical,” she said. “We’re not married. I don’t own your dick.”

He sat up all the way. “I can’t figure you out sometimes. What are you doing, trying to shock me?”

“No,” she said. “Can’t I just being saying what I want to say?”

“Good,” he said. “Because it’s not gonna work.”

She snorted. “Sure thing, tough guy.”

“Megan, where the fuck do you think I come from? How do you imagine I _got_ here? I didn’t take a goddamn plane. I hitchhiked because I was dead broke. I got into cars with fucking creeps -”

“Oh,” she said, mockingly. “Did you get _offers_?” It was awful in her head and worse coming out of her mouth. And she said it anyway.

“Yes!” he snapped. “Of course I did, that’s why most of them picked me up in the first place! And sometimes I wanted to say yes because I was fucking _starving_ half the time. Now I live next door to a teenaged hooker and my other neighbor shoots up in the parking lot and leaves his hypodermics all over the place. You wanna know if I think he’s pretty, too?”

“Jesus christ,” she said. “What an overreaction.”

“Oh my god,” he said. “You think this is a joke.”

“Am I _laughing_?”

“Not that kind of joke,” he said. “It’s not real to you. My kind of life.”

“Your life isn’t my problem.” The cherry on her cigarette was getting too long, ashes spilling off when she took a drag. Her hand shook when she lifted it to her mouth. There was no ashtray so she dropped the whole thing into a glass of water that was sitting next to her bedside lamp.

Swift and terrible hurt rocketed across his face. He looked like an animal caught in the sudden spring of a trap. Like he never saw it coming. She wanted to get away from him, to roll over on her stomach or her side so she didn’t have to see.

“I’m so goddamned stupid,” Michael said. He was already standing up and putting his clothes back on, shoving his feet into his shoes without bothering to look for his socks. His voice sounded off, but she couldn’t tell if he was crying or not. “This is my own fault. I should have known what would happen.”

She huffed out a breath and balled her hands into fists. “Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?”

“Nope,” he said. She wished he’d yell. Throw something. Fucking _look_ at her. Anything that would jog the nausea cutting through her body. Her throat felt like it was filled with dust. “I wouldn’t - I would never.”

“Whatever,” she said. She turned her head towards the window and hated the twinkling lights along the fence. She would tear them down tomorrow. The inside of her mouth tasted bitter. Coppery, like pennies. “You know where the door is. Show yourself out.”

“Megan.” He might have touched her shoulder, very brief and very soft. It might have been her imagination. “I don’t want to fight. I’m sorry, okay?”

“I said _go_.”

She pressed her face into the pillow and counted to a hundred to keep herself from going after him. She thought he might come back - if he did -

But he didn’t. He left so quietly that she didn’t even hear the truck start up, no matter how long she listened.

 

Bathroom light was never flattering but it was the only one in the house bright enough to do her makeup by. She stood in front of the mirror naked and painted herself up, all smoky eyes and shimmering blush across her cheekbones. With practised fingers she pressed false lashes to the line of her eyelid; she had forgotten how weird they felt. It had been weeks since she last wore makeup at all. She’d been spending all her time with Michael and he never cared how she was dressed.

She lay on top of her sheets in her robe once she was done. The dress she wanted to wear was hanging on the back of the door, freshly laundered. But she had to force herself to get up and put it on.

Her problem was that she needed to get back in the game. She was single and free - and young, still - it was time to act like it. God, she used to have so _much_ fun. Getting divorced turned her into Miss Havisham. Enough of that shit - there were clubs, and parties, and a whole glittering city to dive into. She was in Hollywood.

She picked the first club she saw that had a reasonable line outside and sympathetic looking bouncers. Everyone was beautiful; the dance floor was an expanse of smooth, tanned skin - cleavage and shoulders and shining collarbones. All those athletic bodies writhing carelessly against one another. Like a Roman orgy with clothes on. She could practically smell the uppers in the air.

Megan parked herself by the bar and nursed a drink. She didn’t feel like joining the throng. Sweat prickled on the nape of her neck as it was.

“You here with anyone?”

“Depends who’s asking,” Megan said. It was easy to slip back into old habits. Flirting was a well worn groove. A sly smile, a hand on his arm, a look from under the lashes.

“The name’s Alan,” he said. He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand when she extended it.

Alan was tall and built like a surfer with sun-streaked blond hair. He was clearly someone who spent a lot of time at the beach or maybe sailing. His teeth were slightly unnerving in their even white perfection.

( Movie star mouth, Michael had called it. Like those chattering novelty dentures, but in a person’s head. It made her laugh.)

Alan didn’t look a damn thing like - like _certain_ people. When he spoke his accent was the nondescript mid-American type that sounded like it didn’t come from any place in particular. He was perfect.

“I’m Megan,” she said. “I’m new in town.”

She said she was French without specifying what kind or correcting him when he assumed. And she had been to Paris and the Riviera; so she told him about it as he led her to the dance floor. About walking down to the Seine in the rain under her father’s umbrella, and how blue and tan and white Marseille had been. He wasn’t paying attention, and that was fine. They both knew what they were here for.

They ended up in the middle of the crush and it was so uncomfortable; elbows and body heat and too much perfume. She danced listlessly for a while before deciding there was no need to postpone the inevitable. Alan was certainly interested; when she put her mouth to his ear and said that she would like to go outside he perked right up.

He kissed her up against the car but it was all wrong. His lips felt bizarre against hers, like their faces couldn’t fit together right. His hands were too - too _something_ , too pinching or grasping. His touch wasn’t generous enough. The sensation of his palm curving around her thigh, under the slit of her skirt, sent such a spike of anger through her that she couldn’t contain it.

She slapped his hand away. “Knock it off.”

“Uh,” he said. “What? I thought we were -”

“I changed my mind.”

“You know what?” he said, and held his hands above his head like he was being arrested. “I’ll keep them where you can see them, and back slowly away. Because god forbid you think I’m making a move.” He shook his head. Under the streetlight his hair looked dull and uninviting. And the way it was cut was stupid. He’d probably paid a fortune for it. “You chicks are crazy. Talk about mixed signals.”

“They wouldn’t be mixed if any of you could fucking _read_ them!” she yelled.

He reared back; whatever was in her face startled him enough to make him leave without further commentary. She sat behind the wheel and fumed until she couldn’t stand it any more.

Michael had done this to her, somehow. She had no proof but it was definitely his fault. The little bastard ruined her ability to enjoy casual sex.

She called him to tell him so, the second she got home. The phone rang and rang without anyone picking up; she called the motel’s main line back and had them put her through again. Still nothing.

By the time she hung up her rage was fizzling out. It left her hollow and nauseated, a hangover of a sort. She wished she had slammed back a bottle of vodka instead.

Her dress found its way to the living room floor. She fell into bed in her underwear with a face full of makeup and hair that was rigid with hairspray.

 

Megan woke to a beautiful day. There were birds singing outside her window and the early morning breeze carried the scent of her neighbor's flower garden into the room. She felt like shit and took personal offense.

She was going to have to apologize.

She was also going to have to throw out her pillowcase, which looked like a clown had slept on it. The false eyelashes had come off overnight; one of them was stuck to the fabric and frankly she was afraid to find out where the other had ended up.

Her shower lasted twice as long as usual because she had to work so much conditioner through her hair to get the tangles out. She brushed it while she was under the spray until her scalp tingled.

Megan could have put it off. She could have made breakfast, or gone down the walk to check the mail. Instead she braced herself and picked up the phone.

He would have every right to hang up on her. She reminded herself of that as she let the phone ring. Or to tell her off for waking him, or any other reaction. Her stomach clenched with nerves.

But none of her carefully considered scenarios came to pass. He didn’t pick up at all and she set the receiver down, frowning.

Well. He was most likely asleep. Or he had for once gone somewhere after work and was still out. She would call back at a more appropriate hour.

The day passed far too slowly in spite of all Megan’s busywork. She cleaned, sketched out a plan for what she wanted to do with the yard, made a lasagna. It turned out well and she had some vague idea that she could invite him over for dinner before he needed to head off for his shift tonight, if he was amenable. So she wrapped it up and put it in the fridge to wait.

He never answered the second time she called. Or the third. Megan checked the clock; he wouldn’t be at work yet. It didn’t take much deliberation for her to get in her car and turn the key.

She would - she would just check on him, that was all. To see if he was there. And maybe he would feel like talking, and maybe not. If not she would go away. She would leave him alone, like he wanted.

All she wanted was to tell him she was sorry. That he deserved better than she’d given him.

Michael wasn’t in his room. The truck was gone and there was no light showing through the blinds.

Some jittery, dark feeling came over her. It crawled up the length of her spine and sank into her lungs. Foreboding, or an animal instinct too old to identify. He should have been here. Reading before he had to get on the road, making coffee on his little gas range - he didn’t like the stuff they had at work. Said it tasted like swamp water.

There was a different waitress at the diner. A teenaged girl with light brown hair and a round face. Her skin was slightly rough, like she’d just gotten over an acne problem. She didn’t know who Michael was.

“I thought Billy was the one who did the washing up,” she said. “That’s who’s in the kitchen, anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” Megan said. “Did he quit? He was still working here a few days ago.”

“You asking about Mike?” A man came up behind the waitress. He was older, kind of fatherly with a greying mustache. One of the cooks. Megan had seen him before. “She’s new, she never met him.”

“Where is he?” Megan asked, like this guy would be privy to Michael’s entire schedule. “Did he quit?”

“He said he needed some time off. Some kinda family emergency? I don’t have any other details, I figured it was private.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

The man shrugged. “No. Told me he couldn’t be in until at least next week. Does that help?”

“It might,” she said, though it didn’t. “Thanks.”

Lucky for her the motel had no standards of confidentiality and the clerk in the lobby told her that Michael was paid up through the end of the month. “All his shit is still in there,” he said, unconcerned. “You want it if he doesn’t come back? It’ll go in the garbage otherwise.”

“No,” Megan said, and went home because that was the only thing she could do.

She returned every day that week. Sat in her car and stared at his closed door watching for signs of activity that didn’t come; an ice bucket outside the door, a fresh oil stain in the driveway. The maid went in to clean once but that was all.

In between her motel visitations she paced the length of her house and worried herself sick. She scoured the papers every day for news of car crashes, of accidents. Unidentified suicides or bodies being found. For identifying details that would let her know if the worst had happened. There was nothing, of course, but there wouldn’t be. She was the only one who knew him. To everyone else he was a John Doe.

Megan had known he wasn’t stable; she had _known_. And she jabbed at him anyway, over and over until he ran from her.

By the time Michael came home she had bitten her nails to the quick.

In all he was gone ten days. Megan happened to pull into the parking lot as he was stepping out of the truck, which was caked with thick gray dust up past the headlights. She stayed at the far edge, hunkered down, and couldn’t take her eyes off him. He had at least a full week’s worth of patchy beard growth and frankly looked like hell. She was so relieved that she actually felt dizzy.

Michael pulled one bag of groceries out of the cab and then another. With his hands full he had to push his shoulder against the door to close it and got dirt all over his clothes.

Megan got out of the car. “Need some help?” she called, striding towards him.

He squinted at her in the bright sunlight and leaned back against the truck. His face was sunburned, pink high up in his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. “Not really.”

All her practiced speeches and elaborate apologies deserted her. Oh, she remembered them all. I was worried about you, I called the hospitals. I’m a terrible person so maybe you were smart to leave. Please let me in. But none of them would be the magic words she needed, the key that would unlock whatever door had closed between them and make him forgive her. There was no right thing to say.

Face to face with him all she could do was nod with her arms hanging loosely at her sides. “Okay,” she said. “Do you want me to leave?”

He looked down at his feet and scuffed a shoe along the ground. It was spotted with green - he must have been walking in grass, someplace it was still fresh. Not the city, then. He didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no; he shrugged, once, noncommittally.

She took a very deep breath and held out her hands. He seemed to consider them independent of her: the chewed nails and long fingers and lines crisscrossing her palms. The space where her wedding ring used to be. Then he handed her one of the grocery bags, the smaller one.

“Thanks,” she said.

His keys came out of his pocket with a jingle. “It’s eggs and milk. I’m running out of money, so don’t drop ‘em.”

They packed them away without talking. She thought he might make coffee - camping style, on the stovetop since he didn’t have a pot - but instead he sat down heavily on his bed and looked up at her.

With a frustrated sigh he scrubbed his nails through his hair, which was already sticking up all over before he touched it. “We’ve gotta talk,” he said.

She sat next to him. The bedsprings squealed and the mattress dipped under her weight. “Can I ask you a question first?”

“If you want.”

“Where were you? Your boss said you went back home - but that can’t be right.”

“I drove out to Big Sur,” he said. “I wanted to be someplace open for a while. Where I could see the sky. I hate being boxed in, now. It makes it so I can’t breathe.”

Megan tucked her hair behind her ears. The institution, she thought. They must have locked him up, or restrained him -

(She was locked up; she couldn’t get out. All she could do was wait. Sit there and wait for the fire to get her.)

“A hotel?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“No,” he said. “I slept in the truck, mostly.”

Had he brought food? Water? Or did he wander by the ocean with nothing but the clothes on his back, worn-out and hungry under a fierce sun? She looked again at the red on his cheeks and tried not to think about what she might find beneath his shirt, across his shoulders or back.

Megan licked her lips. “Did it help?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I hope so,” she said. “I only wish - I was very worried. I didn’t know where you’d gone. Anything could have happened.”

“I thought we were finished. Didn’t you _want_ me to?”

“No,” she said.

He shot her an unimpressed, sidelong look which she absolutely deserved. “Really? Coulda fooled me.”

“Fine,” she admitted. “I did. But not because I wanted you to leave. I was trying to hurt your feelings. I didn’t even think about what would happen after that.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“I know,” she said. “If it helps I hated it. And for whatever good it does I’m sorry.”

“It was always going to end,” he said. “We’d never work. You’re too normal for me.”

“No,” she said. “No, we got in a fight, Michael. And it was my fault - I’m taking full credit. It wasn’t fate, it wasn’t prewritten. It was just me.” She laughed, bitterly. “I do that. I attack people I care about for stupid reasons, because I’m upset and childish. Normal - god, _normal_. I haven’t been normal in years. I followed you home. More than once.”

He giggled, a real giggle - borderline hysterical, but still real. It came out like it was an autonomic nervous response that he could neither predict nor stop. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes going round. “You did. But I let you.”

He had. They’d traveled a lost highway together, her car tagging along after him like they were two pearls on a string.

She pressed her knees together and exhaled. “I tried to sleep with someone else. I picked him up at a club.”

Michael jerked to his feet. “I don’t want to hear this.”

She grabbed his wrist, her fingers pressing into the knob of bone. “Wait. I promise I have a point, here. I’m not torturing you for kicks.”

He didn’t sit back down. But he didn’t pull away either, not even when she loosened her grip.

“I said I _tried_ to sleep with someone else. I couldn’t do it; I didn’t want him touching me. I didn’t want anyone _else_ touching me. Do you understand? I was going to yell at you for it, afterwards. I called you and everything.”

His eyebrows came together in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I was mad at you for making me want something I couldn’t have.”

“You were the one who said you didn’t get attached,” he said. “I was _trying_ to give you what you wanted.”

“I lied,” she said. To Michael; to herself. “Okay? I lied about that. I wanted you around and I still do. I want to be a real couple and - and have stupid fucking inside jokes and argue over who mows the lawn. The question is if you’re still interested.”

“I wouldn't make a very good boyfriend.”

“Not what I asked.”

“I’m a complete lunatic.”

“I don’t care.”

His smile, when it came, quivered like a struck bowstring. “I’m starting to think you’re nuttier than I am.”

“Is that a yes?” She squeezed his hand, no longer trying to hold him in place but instead just holding him, linking them together. He nodded and she let go. “Good. Now - honey, I don’t want to offend you, but I really think you should go take a shower. You don’t smell so great right now.”

He made a face. “Yeah. You’re on to something there.”

“And shave. Please.” She couldn’t stand beard burn.

Megan found some clean clothes in the narrow closet and in his suitcase, tucked under the bed. There was no dresser or wardrobe. She left an outfit folded on the bed and started the process of making coffee. From the bathroom came the gentle staccato of running water. Humid warmth crept into the rest of the room; there was no ventilation to speak of.

She opened the door to a day with the bleached colors of an overexposed photograph and let the sunlight come in.

 

Megan gave Michael a key to her house. He didn’t want to take it.

It sat on the table between them, potent as an unexploded bomb. “This is too soon,” he said. “Isn’t it? We shouldn’t rush.”

“But what if you drive all the way out here and I’m not home?” she asked. “It’s practical. I don’t expect you to move in. This way at least you won’t be stuck sitting in the driveway waiting around for me.”

“And getting the cops called because I look like I’m casing the place,” he said. One of the neighbors had seen him watering the honeysuckle out front and thought he was a gardener. It seemed to be weighing on his mind. He picked the key up and scraped the pad of his thumb along its ridges. He didn’t look any less hesitant.

“You don’t have to,” she said, pushing away her disappointment. She’d thought they’d moved past - but no. It was going to take time. She needed to stop assuming. “I’ll get rid of it.”

“No,” he said. He put the key in his pocket before she could take it back. “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

Which didn’t actually translate to him using it, not at first. Twice she arrived home to find him parked outside, lost in thought.

“You have a key,” she told him, gently, each time. “You’re allowed to go inside.”

“I know,” he said, clearly embarrassed. She didn’t push it.

But after that his truck was in the driveway without him. She left her shoes by the door and searched the house until she came upon him in the kitchen. He was on his back beneath the sink, tinkering with something.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I was in here and I could hear this dripping - and there was a pan, underneath, and it was full. So I, uh - hold on.” There was the screech of metal on metal, and then he continued. “I figured I’d better take care of it. You let that stuff go and it keeps getting worse until the whole place is a shithole.”

She knelt down next to him and put a hand on his knee. “I didn’t know you could fix things.”

“I’m no plumber,” he said. “But I lived in a tenement. They weren’t what you’d call eager to do home repairs. We all learned to do the little stuff ourselves. Otherwise we’d have to wait forever.”

“Why do have tools?” she asked. “You live in a hotel.”

He slid himself out from under the sink, bumping against her. “Megan, these are yours. I found them here.”

“Really?”

“Why do you have tools if you don’t know how to use them?”

“Someone must have left them here,” she said. “There were all sorts going through the house at one point. I didn’t keep track.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. You gotta be careful, Megan.”

The last thing she’d been was careful. People had drifted past her like ghosts, their faces blurred together in her memory. Unimportant. She supposed she was lucky nothing had happened.

“You sound like my mother,” she said and kissed him, climbing between his legs so she could lay on top of him. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in, the warm smell of him. “It’s just us now.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Right now?”

“I always did like the sight of a man working with his hands.”

“Those hands are pretty dirty,” he said. “I’ll ruin your nice dress.”

The thought made her shiver. “I have other dresses,” she said, and felt his fingers slide up underneath her skirt.

 

They went for a walk down Hollywood Boulevard in the radiant glow of late afternoon. There was a pall over the sky, like being trapped under glass, but they were together and out in public and he kept his arm around her the whole time.

Michael had never been down here, never done the whole tourist thing. His routine had been so consistent since coming to LA that it was a miracle he hadn’t dug a trench into the street. So she pointed out landmarks, now and again: the Pantages sign, the ridged roof of the Chinese Theatre.

“I bet you didn’t even go see the statue of Liberty when you lived in New York,” she said.

“I saw it,” he said. “Just from a different angle than most.”

They passed a few empty storefronts. One of them had been rented out but not for retail - there was a piece of poster board tipped against the window painted with a blue circle, a star, and the words _Heavenly Reunification Church_.

A gaggle of women milled around the doorway and spilled out onto the sidewalk. They all had uncut hair hanging loose down to their waists. One girl wearing an ankle length pastel dress and an empty smile drifted over. There was a daisy tucked behind her ear and she carried a bucket of them in her hands.

Michael immediately tightened the arm he had draped across Megan’s shoulders. He moved as close to her as he could, pressed against her side.

“Brother Thomas blesses us with his presence today,” the girl said. She handed Megan a flower, a touch wilted. “We welcome you to the temple.” Her eyes were half-lidded, almost doped up, and she spoke in a drone.

Megan looked inside the store. There were rows of folding chairs and not much else. A man stood at the front bending over a girl, his hand on the top of her head. He was speaking rapidly and she was crying. Every few seconds she paused to wipe her face and nod in agreement. Megan was surprised to see how normal she looked; how normal they _all_ looked. Fresh faced, in jeans and sleeveless blouses or peasant shirts. The crying girl had a yarn necklace on, the kind kids made in summer camp. She might have been an attendee from one of Megan’s acting classes.

“We don’t want any, thanks,” Michael said. He steered Megan away while she twirled her flower between her thumb and forefinger. One of the petals fell off.

“They got some nerve calling that a temple,” he said once they had moved away from the congregation enough for him to relax.

Megan thought about the girl and her tears, her nodding head. “Maybe it helps people.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “People with these fakey-religion setups are always con jobs. At best they want your money and at worst - well, look at what happened to poor Sharon Tate and the LaBiancas.”

“I’ll be double checking the locks tonight,” Megan said. “So thanks.”

“I always do when I’m over anyway,” he said. “And you should too. California is one giant waystation. You never know who might be in your backyard.”

She hadn’t meant to give him another thing to worry over, but she was beginning to realize she couldn’t always avoid it. “I don’t know,” she said, tapping his chin with her daisy. “I met this one drifter who seems pretty cool.”

“Get lost,” he said, but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Now you’re being cheesy.”

“You like it,” she said. She glanced back once at the girl with the flowers and her brethren. Distance made them indistinct, hazy as watercolors. Their silhouettes blended into one another; all those bare limbs and summer frocks and tangled, windblown hair. They did not face her but instead turned towards the murky skyline, shielding their eyes from the glare as they searched its length. One girl made a series of dreamy, abstracted movements; she was pulling the petals from a flower and dropping them on the ground.

 

In the truck Megan took off her sandals and put her feet on the dash. Her toes curled against the vinyl; it was scorching even though they’d parked in the shade.

The Kentucky sticker was peeling off, lifting up at the edges. She scraped at it with her fingernails until it came loose. There were sticky spots of ancient glue left behind and under her nails. The truck jostled her every time they hit a rough patch of road. It handled bumps about as well as a golf cart.

“Defacing my property?” Michael asked.

She grinned and flicked the remains of the sticker at him. “Where’d you get this old thing, anyway?”

“In Nevada,” he said.

“Win it in a poker game?”

“Someone gave it to me,” he said. “Not like a gift. A payment, kind of.”

“Who?”

Some odd sadness flickered across his face.Or guilt - it was hard to tell. She never forgot he had his own shadows following him. But it did slip her mind that she didn’t know what they were; only the most public of them, the crack-up at work that explained nothing at all.

“His name was Neil. He was - not a friend, exactly. Or he was. Who knows.”

She could see him wandering away from her, the way he occasionally did, lost somewhere in his own head.

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” she said, and put her hand on his forearm. If she stretched her fingers down she could feel his heartbeat at the juncture of his wrist. “You should tell me about it when we get home.”

He nodded, but when they got there he made a bee-line for the liquor cabinet. Megan was surprised. Michael was an indifferent drinker at most; he could nurse the same beer all night and not notice. But she didn’t protest. Everyone needed a little dutch courage now and then. He mixed up a jack and coke, which made her smile. Trust him to cut the hard stuff with something sweet.

He gave her one as well and they sat on her couch with the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table in front of them. But he didn’t stop at one; he had another, and another following that, all in quick succession. It didn’t make him any less gray in the face; if anything his sick-pallor got worse. And he still hadn’t started in on whatever triggered such an uncharacteristic binge.

She put her hand over his glass when he picked up the bottle a fourth time. “Enough.”

“Alright,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Enough.”

Megan had gone tense without noticing it. Her spine was as straight as a soldier. She’d been gearing up for a fight that never came because that was how it always went with Don. In the end he had taken to hiding his empties from her and she had stopped asking about them. There was no such thing as enough for him.

She moved the bottle aside. “What was that about?”

Michael gnawed at his lower lip. “I’m about to tell you something, and you aren’t gonna like it.”

“You can’t predict that.”

He swallowed, hard. “Bet I can.”

“Is your opinion of me _that_ low?” she demanded.

“No,” he said, with genuine horror, “god, no - the opposite. I - I Io -”

Megan’s head was spinning. Oh fuck, she thought, oh fuck. Not now. Neither of them were ready.

But he recovered himself. “I care about you and I don’t want what we got to end.”

“Why do you think it will?”

“Because I slept with him,” Michael said, bluntly. “With Neil. And I liked it.”

He was very upset, and she did try and take that into consideration. However -

“So what?” she said.

 

He met Neil in a pinball parlor, of all places. They were in Oregon and the rain made everything smell green. Michael ducked in to dry off and hopefully get something hot to drink. They didn’t have coffee but there was a machine that made watery hot chocolate so he had that instead.

Neil had been playing pinball near the the table where Michael sat, not very well. He fed coin after coin in only to lose out fifteen minutes later. “You have to tip it,” Michael said, and showed him how.

Michael was almost out of money and had exhausted every odd job the town had. He was looking to leave, and Neil was heading back home to Tonopah.

“I didn’t care where anyone was going,” Michael told her. “Or where I ended up. I felt like I had to keep moving or I’d die. Or get caught, somehow - that somebody was gonna figure out who I was, _what_ I was, and I’d get locked up again. I was like a fucking barnacle clinging to the side of any ship that passed.”

Tonopah was just fine by him. And Neil had a better idea than most; he needed someone to help him finish building his garage. He couldn’t pay much but when they were finished Michael could have the truck he was driving, a beat-up lemon that had been kicking around his family for years. He had a newer one back at the house anyway.

“God, to have something to drive,” Michael said. “No more standing by the road in the snow while people passed me by. No one wants to pick up hitchhikers anymore.”

Tonopah was a mining town without a mine. It was in the desert and the air was so thin and arid that it made Michael’s nose bleed. He ruined most of his shirts, would go for walks through town and come back with spots of blood all down his front, holding his sleeve against his nose to staunch the flow. At night the temperature dropped so much that he would wake up with cold feet, shivering.

Neil’s house wasn’t quite finished, either, but it was functional. The garage was only a wooden frame. They were there together, alone, for more than a month.

“We got closer,” Michael said. “You’ll think I’m an idiot but I really liked the guy.”

Neil was young and handsome, with sandy brown hair and an easy smile. He was a couple years out of college, a geologist, and worked for the military in the area doing some kind of prospecting. He treated Michael like a person instead of a charity case. It had been a long time since anyone had done that for him.

“I let him kiss me,” said Michael. “I let him do other things. I wanted him to.”

They went for drives down the highway and got the garage put together and slept in the same bed. Near the end Neil even took Michael camping, once, in Yosemite. Taught him all about the rocks; shale and sandstone and how diamonds were made. Nothing but pressure and time. And then he told him to move into the spare bedroom, because his wife was coming home.

There had been no signs that Neil was married. No perfume in the bathroom, no dresses hanging in the closet. She had never been to the house. While it was being constructed she stayed with her parents in Reno.

“Afterwards it was like we’d never happened,” said Michael. “He put it away and he didn’t think about it. But I couldn’t stop myself. I had to wonder if it was true, if it was me, if I - I was getting sick again, or _sicker_ , and imagining things. How would I know if I was? I didn’t before.”

He spent the remaining weeks of that fall finishing the garage and avoiding Neil’s wife. He couldn’t even look at her.

“I couldn’t wait to leave,” said Michael. “I used to pace the room they had me in, back and forth. I stopped being able to sleep. I was fucking terrified she’d find out… and she was a nice woman, really, kept on being friendly to me after I ran from her a million times.” He blinked, his eyes glassy. “Who was I to hurt her like that?”

“You didn’t,” said Megan. “She never knew about it and you didn’t know about her, since Neil took such pains not to tell you.”

“You make it sound so bad,” Michael said. “But it was my fault, I shouldn’t have started anything with him in the first place.”

Megan snorted. “Bullshit. He brought you to that house without telling you what you were walking into. Because god forbid you be able to make an informed decision. God, why do men _do_ that.”

“But maybe I’d have done the same thing,” he said, “Maybe that’s what screwed up queers do - or whatever it is I am - I don’t know, do I? I have no idea what the hell the word would be.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, so filled with self-disgust that he couldn’t sit still. “All I know is I’m not normal.”

Megan stared at him. She’d never seen someone bothered that they couldn’t think of a name nasty enough to call themselves before.

“I’ve had sex with women,” she said.

“Are you saying that to make me feel better?”

“No!” She turned towards him sharply, trying and failing to remain patient. “You’re not the only one who can check if the grass is greener on the other side. I’ve probably slept with more women than you have.”

“Wow,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting that, I gotta say.”

“Stop picturing it.”

“I’m _not_ ,” he said. The alcohol of was catching up with him, making him flushed and slower to react than usual. But it seemed to have belatedly calmed him down.

“People think everything is so easy to categorize,” Megan said. “Some things aren’t. Some of _us_ aren’t.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I could see that. For you.”

She sighed. “And you. I keep telling you we aren’t so different, but you never believe me.”

“I don’t mean to call you a liar,” he said. “But it’s - it’s not the same when it’s someone else. They have reasons for being the way they are. And they’re trying. Everyone is trying.”

“And you aren’t?” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t think so, buddy.”

“It’s not enough,” he said. “I - I’m not…” he trailed off and frowned, looking at her woozily. “What was I trying to say?”

She picked up his glass and sniffed it. “Jesus. Went light on the soda, didn’t you?”

He put his hands over his face. His voice came out muffled when I spoke. “I know,” he moaned. “But I was so freaked out. I thought I was gonna get dumped for sure. I was trying to make it hurt less.”

If he hadn’t been pickled, would he have said that last part? Let her see how he felt, so easily, like offering up the ragged scared parts of himself was nothing at all? It would have been mean-spirited to draw attention to it, so she didn’t.

“You should lie down,” she said. They went into the bedroom and he got on top of the blankets. She’d lost the knack for taking care of people, walking around the bed awkwardly, trying to decide if she should give him instructions. _Go in the bathroom if you need to throw up_ or _if you undress it’ll be more comfortable_.

In the end she closed the curtains and said goodnight, though the sun was still lighting stripes across the floor and the bed. And then, suddenly, she changed her mind. Marched back in and grabbed a very startled Michael by the front of his shirt.

“What,” he said, eyes popping open.

“Don’t you dare become a drunk,” Megan said. “You listen to me, Michael Ginsberg. I won’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll stop drinking right now, if you want.”

She let him go. “I didn’t say you had to be a teetotaler. But I had to warn you.”

“I understand,” he said. “That must have been fucking horrible, with Don.”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. “You can go to sleep now. Think about what I said.”

“Okay,” he said. “I - okay. G’night.”

She got off the bed and left the room. On second thought she returned with a small garbage pail, and put it next to the bed. Just in case.

(He didn’t need it. He woke up a couple of hours later, still groggy but no worse for the wear, and helped her do the dishes. They watched television once the chores were done, their hands loosely clasped together.)

 

Megan answered the door in her bathrobe. Emmanuelle breezed past her, tucking her sunglasses up into her hair as she went. She had dyed it a light golden brown that didn’t wash her out the way blonde had.

“Why are you not ready?” she asked in French. “And why don’t you answer your phone?”

“I couldn’t decide what to wear,” said Megan. “And I thought it might be my father.”

In the bedroom Emmanuelle threw herself across Megan’s bed on her stomach, chin in her hands and her ankles crossed prettily. She looked like a yé-yé cover. “What about that blue dress you used to wear to auditions?” she asked, switching to English. She was always trying to improve her ability to speak it. “I liked that one.”

She’d worn it the last time she had seen Don. “That’s so out of date now,” Megan said. “I need something more modern.”

“I wish you would go with me on Thursday,” said Emmanuelle. “I miss competing with you. It was fun.”

“You say that because you usually won,” Megan said. “I don’t know. I might. We’ll see how I feel later.”

“Don’t leave it too long,” Emmanuelle cautioned. “Where have you been, anyway? I caught up with everyone when I got back and none of them had seen you in months. Yolanda, Rick, Charlene - they all said you pulled a disappearing act.”

Megan yanked hangers out of her way until she caught a glimpse of white. “I wouldn’t call it that,” she said, having left her answer a beat too late. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” Emmanuelle asked. When Megan didn’t respond she smiled slyly and kicked her feet in the air. “Oh. With _who_?”

“It’s very new,” said Megan, which both and wasn’t true. “I don’t want to jinx anything.”

Parts weren’t the only thing they’d competed for. Emmanuelle had a boyfriend and Michael was about as far from her type as could be imagined. Megan didn’t want to take any chances all the same. It was unfair of her, she knew, but she was okay with that. Only until they were a little steadier on their feet.

“How mysterious of you,” said Emmanuelle. “I hope he’s rich.”

“I’m already rich,” she said.

“You can always be richer,” said Emmanuelle with a giggle.

“He’s not,” said Megan. “He’s - nice. He’s a good person.”

“Sounds boring.”

Megan laughed. “I’m sorry, but - if you knew him. Boring is the last word I’d pick to describe him.”

“I’m glad you’re happy and that you’re having a love nest,” Emmanuelle said. “But hurry, please! Denis hates being kept waiting.”

Megan chose a white a-line dress with a fun rainbow-striped tie at the neck. It would show up well in the pictures; simple but striking. They left in Emmanuelle’s car and arrived just in the nick of time.

“ _Mon ange_ ,” said Denis as Emmanuelle skipped up to him. “You look beautiful, as always.” He was smoking Gitanes, of course. He had the camera set up and ready to go.

Megan didn’t really need headshots at this point in her life but she supposed it couldn’t hurt. Denis wasn’t asking to be paid; he just wanted some examples for his portfolio. Apparently his parents were loaded - he and Emmanuelle had recently returned from a month spent in their Mediterranean villa. Money wasn’t a concern of his.

Emmanuelle went first. Denis had her pose in front of a blank wall and an artistically rumpled tarp. Standing, sitting, turning her head this way and that. He kept adjusting the lighting to show off her soft cheeks and full lips as best he could. From certain angles she looked like Marianne Faithful.

When it was her turn Megan couldn’t get comfortable in front of the camera. The flash bulb hurt her eyes. She felt like her face was doing something weird every other second; a stiff, unappealing smile, a twitching eyelid. The studio was overheated and she became concerned that she was sweating through her dress under the lights.

“Megan,” Denis said. “Calm down. You’re pacing like a zoo animal.”

“Sorry,” she said, and shook out her arms, rolled her shoulders to get the energy out. “I haven't done this in a while.” She faced the camera and smiled.

“That’s more like it,” Denis said. “But maybe not so many teeth?”

“Denis!” Emmanuelle scolded. She was draped across a chair sideways, looking through some proofs. “Let her do what she wants! You’re making her nervous.”

“Fine, fine,” Denis said, taken aback. “I’m only the photographer, what do I know?”

“Don’t sulk,” said Emmanuelle. “It will give you forehead lines.”

Megan was relieved when the session was over. She and Emmanuelle ate dinner together and went for a drive after, enjoying the red sunset. The days were getting shorter, bit by bit.

“I still say you should come,” Emmanuelle said as they pulled into Megan’s driveway. “It’s an open call, what is there to lose?”

“I might,” said Megan, which meant no; yet when Thursday came she found herself dressed and waiting for Emmanuelle to pick her up.

“Does my hair look okay?” she asked Michael. “Maybe I should have gotten it cut.”

“You look great,” he said. “You look great when you’re sitting around in your pyjamas. You’re gonna knock their eyes out.”

“I wish more casting directors were like you,” Megan said. “I might stand a chance if they were. I always feel like they’re evaluating a piece of horseflesh. Like they’re going to check if my withers are prominent enough. It wouldn’t be a surprise if someone asked me to trot around the room.”

“I don’t know what withers are,” said Michael, “but if they don’t see how great you are they’re fucking blind.”

She kissed him for that, all the while wondering why he couldn’t talk himself up the way he did for her. “You are so sweet.”

He waved her off. “Don’t mess up your lipstick.”

“I’m supposed to worry about that, not you.” She had left a little smudge on his face, actually.

Outside a car horn honked. Megan took a deep breath and tried to center herself. “That’s her. Oh god, I am _so_ out of practice.”

“Go,” he said. “If you don’t I’ll lock you out of the house.”

She tucked the envelope containing her headshots into her purse. “I knew I shouldn’t have given you a key.”

“Hey,” he said. “When do I get to meet some of your friends? I’d have introduced you to mine except I don’t have any.”

He meant it as a joke, Megan could tell, but she still felt a stab of terrible guilt. “Soon,” she promised. “Whoever there is left, anyway.”

“Good luck,” he called after her. “No, forget I said that! Break a leg instead!”

She was laughing when she went out the door. “Is that your boyfriend?” Emmanuelle asked as Megan slid into the passenger seat and closed the door behind her. She looked up to see Michael standing in the big front window, waving goodbye. He was saying something but she couldn’t make it out, so she smiled - a smile that came so easily, it positively leapt on to her face - and waved back.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s him.”

 

The line for the audition was huge, spilling out of the door and down the street. Megan and Emmanuelle ended up somewhere around the middle. For the moment the red winds were calmed. It was humid instead, pea-soup heavy air pressing down on the city. The rains of winter weren’t ready to come on but Megan half expected a thunderstorm to be brewing above her head. She looked up at the sky, which was cloudless. They fanned themselves with their casting notices until they got inside and tried to look peppy and bright-eyed instead of wilted as dead flowers.

Megan went in first. There were three men sitting behind a table with metal legs and a canvas top. Her stomach twisted. She had hoped, irrationally, for a woman to be included. It didn’t always make a difference, but when it did - oh, what a relief to look over and see a sympathetic face.

She picked a likely candidate and handed him the envelope with her headshots inside. “Hi,” she said, flashing them a smile. “My name is Megan Calvet.”

She’d prepared a dialogue, but wasn’t sure if they’d want to hear it. The part only had a few lines - not much more than a glorified extra. Or maybe they would want her to read from the script. Because she wasn’t sure, she waited, and the longer she waited the more convinced she became that somehow she had already failed.

The guy she’d given her pictures to spread them across the table. They passed them amongst themselves and remained quiet as monks. Not one word to her. Finally the man sitting in the middle, who wore glasses so thick they distorted his eyes, gave an almost shake of his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “We’re aiming for a little less Birkin, a little more Cybill Shepherd.”

Megan wanted to laugh. All her rehearsing at home and she didn’t get to open her mouth. Michael had run lines with her all week, tripping over the iambic pentameter in Shakespeare. He had liked Miller much better; it was easier for him to say. She thought Odets might be easier still but didn’t have any on hand.

Megan waited for Emmanuelle outside the building. She leisurely smoked a cigarette and watched the girls check their makeup in their compacts, trading emergency implements of beauty back and forth - a lipstick, a comb.

She considered: if she was blonde. If she had sun-kissed skin, a glowing tan. She hadn’t been to the beach in almost a year. If she was American, the way they wanted, the way that showed.

Most of the girls had come in pairs. Good old moral support. Or keeping your enemies close. It could be hard to tell, in Hollywood.

Emmanuelle came out. She was neither visibly happy nor sad.

“Marilyn Monroe and Shelley Winters used to be roommates,” said Megan.

“What?” said Emmanuelle. “Who is Shelley Winters?”

“She’s been nominated for an Oscar,” said Megan. “More than once.”

“Did she win?”

“I don’t remember.” Megan stubbed her cigarette out on the wall. “How’d it go?”

“Pffft,” said Emmanuelle. “I was too short. You?”

“Too brunette,” said Megan. “I think. Ready to go?”

They left the windows of the car down to catch as much of the breeze as possible. With the audition behind them they didn’t have to worry about preserving their hairstyles.

“But it must be nice,” said Emmanuelle, “to be back on track. That was your first time back on the pony.”

“The horse,” said Megan. Girls outside of auditions, girls handing out flowers on the street. All waiting for that big break, that cosmic change. “How do you keep doing it?”

“Me?” Emmanuelle shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me so much. I learn, I try again. There’s always tomorrow. And no biz like show biz, like the song.”

Michael was waiting for her in the living room when she got home. “So?” he asked. “Are you a movie star?”

“Nope,” she said, and leaned over to kiss him. While she was at it she dropped her headshots on the coffee table. “So don’t quit your day job just yet.”

“Oh,” he said in real surprise, like he was totally convinced she’d get the part. “I hope I didn’t jinx you with that good luck thing. I tried to fix it.”

“You don’t actually control the gods of chance, Michael,” she reassured him. “So don’t worry.”

That was like telling him not to breathe, for all the good it would do. But for once he settled down, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Next time, right?”

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t know about that.” She sat on the couch next to him and then swung her legs up so they were across his lap and she could lay back. “I used to think everyone who succeeded was better than I was, harder working. More talented. But they aren’t. They’re more resilient, that’s all. I can’t take the hits.”

“I liked competition once,” he said. “But I could never go back to advertising. I mean, if they’d let me.”

“Rejection, rejection, rejection,” sighed Megan. “I’m finished with living up to someone else’s expectations.”

Michael picked up the envelope. “Can I? I wanted to see them earlier, but figured you wouldn’t want me messing around with them.”

“Go ahead.”

He was more careful than the men at the audition had been, lingering over each picture. “Not a movie star,” he said after he was finished. “Just looks like one.”

“At the audition I got compared to Jane Birkin,” she said. Technically she was being accurate.

“And you still didn’t get the part,” he said.

“No,” she pouted. Her stomach growled, loudly. “I didn’t get lunch, either. Emmanuelle had to take off.”

“I’ll make you something,” he said, and moved her legs so he could get up.

She curled up on her side with her head resting on the arm of the couch. “You don’t have to. We could order in.”

“No, I can make you something.”

“Can you cook?” asked Megan. “Aside from eggs or sandwiches.”

He shrugged theatrically, spreading his arms wide. “Guess we’ll see.”

Had any of her other boyfriends cooked for her? Had Don? She couldn’t recall. (She remembered plates gone cold while she waited, alone.) When she was young she had quite liked to cook; she had given it up because no one gave a shit about the effort. Listening to him bang around in the kitchen she felt the urge to learn how to again.

He was humming - she recognized the tune. _La Vie en rose_. She sang it in the shower sometimes. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be listening.

“Hey,” she said, “is that Édith Piaf I’m hearing?”

“Who?” he said. “No. It’s you. I got it from you.”

 

He wasn’t kidding about not being able to sleep. After work he would stay up for hours, until well after the sun had risen, talking to her or watching T.V. or reading one of his books. More often than not she had to chase him off to bed. When he was off work he tried to adapt to her schedule, unsuccessfully; she would find him on the couch in the morning, passed out in some incredibly uncomfortable position.

“Is it being in bed with someone else?” she asked. “Some people can’t sleep that way. You can take one of the spare rooms, if you want.”

“No,” he said. He was lying on a hammock she’d put up in the backyard while she gardened. It had been great fun watching him try and get into it. “It’s not a new problem. I’ve always been a night owl. Only it got worse in the past few years.”

“You ever try sleeping pills?”

“I don’t want to take pills,” he said. “I want to be able to sleep like an ordinary person.”

“You could,” she said. “With pills.”

“Aren’t you planting that stuff kinda late?” he asked. It was an obvious stab at a subject change, but he was becoming increasingly humorless about the conversation so she didn’t press him on it.

“Might be,” she said. “But it just has to put down roots. These are perennials, they come back every year.” She was planting wild indigo, the richly colored blooms nodding in the wind.

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I plant them again,” she said.

“Do those come back too?” he asked, gesturing towards the young rose bushes she had lined up along the back fence. They were yellow and white, sitting pretty in their burlap bags. She would put them in tomorrow or the next day.

He really didn’t know anything about gardening. But then, he’d never even had a balcony. Back when she was working in advertising there had been a sad potted ficus hanging around their office. She was the only one who ever watered it; presumably it died of neglect after she left.

“Yes,” she said. “Bushes always do. They’re like little trees.”

“Always thought roses grew the way they look in bouquets,” he said. “Straight up from the ground, one by one.”

“Those are altered to look like that,” she said. “Grown in a special way. They cut off all the other flowers, most of the leaves - and they don’t have much of a scent.” She walked over to a rosebush and snipped off a stunted bloom. It was about the size of a quarter. “See?” she said, and put it under his nose. “The ones from a florist don’t smell like that.”

“Smells like a perfume.”

She tucked it into his hair, just above his ear. “Now you will too.”

He drifted off like that, in the hammock, to the perfume of roses. She finished planting her indigo and when she looked up he was fast asleep.

 

Megan opened her eyes to the stifling dark. She turned over on her back and tried to pinpoint why she felt like something was off. It was the absence of sound or movement that tipped her off. No breathing, no reaction to all her shifting around.

She turned on the lamp. Michael’s side of the bed was cold, so he must have been up for a while.

He wasn’t in the kitchen or watching late-night T.V. She checked the other bedrooms but they were empty. His truck was still in the driveway.

He could have gone for a walk, but some instinct guided her to the backyard. When she flicked on the exterior light she saw him, kneeling down by the back fence. He looked like he was digging in the dirt.

A few dried out leaves blew in when she slid the door open. The ground was wet under her bare feet - the sprinklers came on at night.

“Michael?” she called out. Her voice cut sharply through the quiet. “What are you doing?”

He stopped moving and twisted around so he could see her. The undershirt he had worn to bed was clinging to him, stained with the same mud that was streaked up to his elbows and across his face. His hair was dripping. He must have started before the sprinklers turned on and kept going while they sprayed him with water.

“I thought I smelled smoke,” he said, and dropped his dirty hands into his lap. They curled into fists, pressed into his thighs.

He had been planting the rose bushes. They were all in but one, a neat line along the fence alternating white and yellow. Megan touched a half-unfurled flower; a drop of water shook off and landed on the top of her foot.

“I was up anyway,” he said. “I thought I’d - I don’t fucking know. Do something. Be useful.”

“We should go inside,” she said.

She used the hose to rinse their feet off so they wouldn’t dirty the carpet. Instead they left damp spots behind them, a trail of breadcrumbs all the way to the bathroom.

It was worse, in the bright light. His hands weren’t only muddy but scratched up, blood in the lines of his palm and between his fingers.

She sucked in a breath and wanted to snap at him, to tell him he had to take better care of himself. “Why didn’t you put on my gardening gloves?”

“I couldn’t feel it,” he said. “My hands went numb.” He flexed his fingers, staring at them like he couldn’t understand what they were. “I get this - I don’t know what to call it. Starts out like I can’t breathe, or my chest hurts. And then it’s like I’m in a fishtank. Underwater, and everything is far off. I can see it but I can’t touch it. I get this rushing in my ears - nothing feels real. And I know it is, I _know_ that. I’m not - confused. Not like I used to be. But if I can’t make it stop then it’ll be like my hands went dead, or parts of my face, or whatever. The same as when your legs fall asleep from sitting too long.”

“You need to talk to someone about this,” she said.

“It’s the fires,” he said. “I’ll be fine when they’re over.”

“No, you won’t,” she said. “You say so often enough yourself.”

He looked away from her. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Michael -”

“Just get out so I can shower.”

“It’s my fucking bathroom!” She turned on the taps, hard, and reached for his hands. “You need to get those cuts cleaned out and disinfected.”

He pulled away. “I can do it myself.”

“ _Michael_ -”

“I can wash my own hands -”

“Will you please just let me _help_?” she said, her voice raising in frustration. “You can’t expect me to look away if you’re hurting yourself! That’s not fair. That’s not what being in a relationship _is_.”

The sound of pouring water filled the ringing silence that followed. In the mirror Megan could see that her face was red, her hair messy and tangled. She leaned over the sink and shut the taps off.

“You’re right,” he said.

“That admission better not be a prelude to breaking up with me,” said Megan.

“Do I make you feel like that?” he asked. “Like I’m going to dump you all the time?”

“Kind of,” Megan said. “Because you like me too much, or some self-defeating crap.” The anger that had been winging through her was gone and in the aftermath of it she wanted to cry, as she always did. She rubbed her hand against her nose and tried to hold her face together.

“I want so bad to be good for you,” Michael. “I want to make you happy worse than anything. Instead I’m gonna drag you down, like I do with everything.”

“I get to decide who’s good for me,” she said. “Not you. I hate the way you talk about yourself. You’ve _been_ making me happy.”

“How?” he said. “I’m not calling you a liar, I’m not - but you could do better. Megan, you have to know you can. I’m broke and borderline homeless and fucking bugshit. I can’t hold down a real job. I missed my chance to be somebody that mattered. What if I end up really losing it? You’d have to take care of me. I can’t do that to you.”

“I’m a failed actress who lives off her ex-husband’s money,” said Megan. “If anyone’s a parasite here it’s me. I’m the bitch who kicked you out of bed and told you to go sleep with your teenaged neighbor.”

“But you didn’t mean it.”

“I still said it.” Megan shook her head. “If you get to outline your flaws then so do I.”

“You’re not a bitch.”

“Sometimes I am,” she said. “Sometimes you’re crazy. Who cares? I don’t give a shit about better options. I want _you_.”

He gave her a long, complicated look. The color was returning to his face, creeping back into the exhausted sallowness that stress and fear had brought on. He still needed a solid night of sleep - more than one. There were ashy circles under his eyes, but now there was light in them too. Maybe that was what hope looked like on him.

“Guess I can’t talk you out of it,” he said. When she smiled he lifted a hand, to touch her cheek or her hair, but stopped short of actually doing it. “I’d hug you if I wasn’t all disgusting.”

She immediately wrapped her arms around him, pressing him back against the sink. He kissed the top of her bowed head. “We’ll both get in the shower,” she said. “It’s just dirt.”

Megan set the temperature, hotter than she usually would during this time of year. But he had been sitting in cold water for who knows how long; tired and run-down all the while. A warm shower couldn’t hurt. They undressed quickly - he helped pull her nightgown off - and they got in together, naked underneath the spray.

They had to start with his hands. First one and then the other; he let her wash off all the blood and mud and didn’t flinch at the sting from the soap. The scratches weren’t too deep, for the most part.

“I’ve got some peroxide in the cabinet,” said Megan, “and you’re going for a tetanus shot tomorrow. Don’t argue or I’ll drown you.”

“I won’t,” he said. He had his hand on her waist, didn’t seem to want to let go even when she squirmed past him to get at the shampoo. “Megan - I -”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I was born in a concentration camp.”

For at least a full minute she was convinced she had misheard. That there was water in her ears.

He had gone slack, almost expressionless. Like he couldn’t do anything but wait for her to decide what to make of him. “How?” she asked, once she had sorted herself out. It was a stupid question, but what the hell _else_ could she say?

“Nobody ever told me that part,” he said.

“What _did_ they tell you?” she asked. Water was running off her hair, into her eyes, but she couldn’t stop looking at him. It was impossible to reconcile the reality of him with such a fantastic story.

“That my mother died there,” he said. “No one ever said of what, but I don’t have to stretch my imagination too far on that one. I don’t know who my father is. Or was. It’s better if I don’t - the best case scenario is that he was a prisoner who died, too. Everything else is too sickening to think about. I don’t know when I was born, either.”

“Year?” she asked. “Or date?”

“Either. My age was a guess. The orphanage people had to do something. But I was in more than one of those, too.”

Megan had been born at the Hôpital Général de Montréal. Her father had been a professor at McGill at the time, where he’d met Marie when he was still a teaching assistant and she took one of his classes. Her grandmother was there on the day of her birth - she had died when Megan was ten, and some unidentified admirer sent a huge bouquet of peonies to the church. If she concentrated, Megan could smell them still.

She had always known these things about herself. When Michael reached back into his history all he found was a black hole.

“It’s a miracle you survived,” she said.

“It doesn’t feel like one,” he said. “Nothing living should come from death.”

“But here you are,” she said.

“Here I am,” he agreed. “I just thought that you should know.”

“I love you,” she said. She had wanted to wait, to be sensible for once. She always fell far, far too fast. But she couldn’t draw the words back in. “You don’t have to say it back.”

He kissed her, hard, cupping her face between his newly-spotless hands. “I love you,” he mumbled against her mouth. “I love you, I love -”

They stayed like that long enough for the water to start to cool, for their kissing to turn slow and languid. Finally she pushed him away and went for her original object, the shampoo. “Let me do your hair,” she said.

He dutifully allowed her to work the suds through his curls, eyes closing in pleasure like a cat being scratched. “I’m going to smell like you.”

The shampoo was ylang-ylang scented, warm and tropical. It was unabashedly feminine because Megan didn’t buy her toiletries with anyone but herself in mind. “Good,” she said, and kept scrubbing.

 

They slept until noon the next day. Michael made her breakfast - the good, homemade kind of oatmeal with brown sugar and fruit, because she wanted something sweet. She’d largely dropped all attempts at dieting by the time he started coming around. If she had noticed her pants were a little tighter when she put them on the other day, then so be it.

He sat down at the table with her and fiddled with his spoon. “There’s one more thing I gotta say. About last night.”

She swallowed orange juice and steeled herself. “Go for it.”

“This might be as good as it gets for me,” he said. “I might not get any better than I am right now. I want to be clear so that you can - so you can make any decisions you need to make.”

“I already have,” she said. Last night, and the one before, and all the nights before that. For the first time in years she knew exactly what she wanted. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Do I have to answer it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Was it really the fires that set you off? Or _only_ the fires?”

“Anyone ever tell you can be pretty fucking sharp?” he asked ruefully, and settled back into his chair with his arms crossed. She let him have a minute. “I called my father yesterday,” he said, eventually, uncharacteristically quiet.

“Oh,” Megan said. “Oh boy.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s one way to put it.”

“What did he say?” Megan asked, and regretted it. Their problems weren’t her business; she knew Michael wasn’t comfortable talking about them.

Only he must have wanted to, because he answered. “He said a whole lot. I never heard him so mad before. Or so upset. I’m not sure I can fix this, Megan.”

“How long has it been since you last spoke?”

He met her eyes with guilt so acute she almost felt it too, just by association. “A year and a half. No, more than that.”

That was a long time. A _long_ time - Marie was living it up in France and she still called Megan every couple of weeks. If Megan had disappeared the way Michael did Marie would have knocked down the door with a phalanx of police.

“Did he look for you?”

“Of course he did,” Michael said. “But how far could he really get? I left in the middle of the night. Took what money I had left and split. Wrote a note telling him I’d be okay - like he was stupid enough to believe me. But we were killing each other. He blamed himself, I blamed myself. He thought I hated him for committing me and I thought he hated me for being sick. By the end we couldn’t look at each other, we couldn’t speak. All these long silences that made my head hurt. I wasn’t… I wasn’t well, you know? I wasn’t thinking straight. It got to be so I felt like I was choking, all the time. The city was a cage. I was closed in everywhere I went.” He paused for a minute, stuck somewhere on memory lane. “I saw Peggy. In the grocery store - she was buying apples. I hid until she was gone. And then I - I just couldn’t get up. My legs wouldn’t move. I was so afraid I’d walk out and see her. One of the produce guys found me sitting on the floor and asked if he needed to call an ambulance. That was when I decided to leave.”

“Jesus,” said Megan. “I don’t blame you.” She’d run away to LA herself, hadn’t she? Trying to leave her old self behind. Too bad it followed her like a stray cat.

“I do,” he said. “But that’s not the point. He wants me to go back.”

“Do you want to?” she asked. Her oatmeal had gone cold and she poked half-heartedly at it with her spoon.

“I miss it,” he admitted. “I grew up there. The only family I got is in that city. Don’t you miss Montreal, ever?”

She traced a finger around the edge of her bowl, thinking about it. “I miss snow. I hated the cold when I was there, but I miss it now. I miss being able to speak French - you know, at the gas station or the post office or wherever. Not just with my mother.”

“I should learn to speak it,” Michael said. “I bet I can. Roger did, so why not? I will.”

Megan smiled - no, she laughed, sudden and sweet and overcome with fondness. “You don’t have to learn French. And Roger’s is terrible, trust me.”

“Well, the offer’s on the table,” he said.

“So do you want to see him?” Megan asked.

“I can’t tell if I want to,” Michael said. “But I think I might need to.”

Megan nodded. She got up and put her bowl in the sink. Looked out through the window at the sky, the desiccated grass. Then she turned back to him with her heart in her throat. “I’m buying you a ticket.”

“I never asked for that.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’m still going to.”

His oatmeal must have gone cold, too, because he hadn’t touched it. She could smell the coffee he was drinking from where she stood; he always made it so strong. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” she said. “I want you to quit your stupid job and leave your shitty hotel and move in with me.”

It was an insane proposition and there were a million reasons they could - possibly _would_ \- crash and burn. But Megan had left her sanity in Los Angeles the first time she’d lived here, or in New York, or back in Montreal, tucked under her childhood bed like a forgotten pair of shoes. She could settle down with a sensible calm man who worked nine to five and appeared on the doorstep at five-thirty on the dot, and have kids with him, adorable moppets with her dark hair, and get everything, _everything_ anyone had ever told her to want. She could do all that and get hit by a bus one day and never have been once satisfied.

“If you want to,” she added.

He was all quirked eyebrows and round eyes. The same as one of those old cartoons, the guys who made Betty Boop or early Mickey Mouse, sketched in broad strokes of ink. “Yes,” he said, almost before she had finished. He had such good expressions, she thought, dizzy with success. “But what does that have to do with buying me a plane ticket?”

“We’re getting it out of the way,” she said. “If you can go, and still come back -”

She remembered Don; for once without anger, or even pain - just remembered him, and the longing he always had on his face. For someone else. For some _where_ else. Roger said he had dropped off the map entirely, which made sense. It was the only thing left for him to do.

“- then we’ll know,” she said. “Then _I’ll_ know.”

 

She was all over him in the week before he left. They fucked in every room in the house, in the truck again, in the backyard on the ground. Right out in the open, in the middle of the day. “High fences, Michael,” she said and kissed the worry off his face. He paid her back by opening her blouse and sucking on her breasts until she was on the very edge of coming. They fucked like it was a farewell, but it wasn’t, she wouldn’t let it be.

She wanted to remind him what he would be missing while he was in New York. Maybe.

Just a little.

 

At the airport he wore a coat she bought him because it was going to be getting chilly on the east coast. The weather had taken a turn even in California. It was dark blue and she kept smoothing down the lapels while they said goodbye. He submitted to her attentions the same way he had her buying it in the first place: with a surprising minimum of fuss.

“Are you sure you don’t want to bring any of your books?” she asked, though it was far too late to go back to Megan’s place - their place - and get them. He had his suitcase from the hotel with him, and his new coat, and that was all.

“Nope,” he said. “I’m coming back for them, remember?”

“Yeah,” she said, but couldn’t quite bring herself to let go of him just yet. “So what are you going to say to your Dad? Any plans?”

“I’m going to say hi,” said Michael. “And then we’re going to fight a whole bunch, probably loudly.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“We have to,” he said. “We gotta clear the air. There’s so much me and Pop never talked about. And after that,” he shrugged, “we’ll see. We’ll just have to see.”

“He might want you to stay,” said Megan.

“He _will_ want me to stay,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Call me,” Megan said. “Make sure you do.”

“I’m gonna call you every day,” he said. “So you better be prepared.”

He would call at three in the morning, she thought, having forgotten the time difference. But she didn’t mind the idea at all. “Any time,” she said. “Any time you feel like, okay? If you feel bad or anything. Call collect so you don’t run up his phone bill.”

Michael nodded. “I will. I promise. Want to walk me to the gate?”

She held his hand and he bent down to collect his suitcase. The rain started to fall as he did, drops of it landing in their hair and sliding down the collars of their jackets. They were outside, on the sidewalk in front of rows of honking taxis and families dropping off their children or aunts or uncles. He looked up at the pearl-pale sky and said her name in wonder. “Megan. See what I’m seeing?”

It was only the clouds, heavy and low, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and let out a whoop. The people around them noticed, craning their necks to see what was going on. It was quite a spectacle; particularly when he twirled her around in a drunken loop, an approximation of some dance step only he knew.

“Michael!” she said, startled. “What are you -”

“The rain!” he shouted. “They’re gone - don’t you see? The fires are done. It’s over - they’ve stopped. They’ve _stopped_.”

He was grinning, and she put both hands on his shoulders and kissed his open mouth. “They have,” she said, and found herself smiling too. The rain had come to life in earnest; she tasted it on him. Around them people raised newspapers, umbrellas, ran for cover. Megan and Michael didn’t. The drought had been too long for them to fear the downpour. “They always do,” she said, and let it soak her through.

 

 


End file.
